Is there something you're not telling me?
by Artemis Darkshadow
Summary: AU. "Sam, is there something you're not telling me? I need to know where the bruises came from." It didn't take a lot for Dean Campbell to realise something was wrong with Sam Winchester. But there are some things you simply cannot tell. Rated for language, self harm and mental and physical child abuse. Probably Sabriel later on but no slash. Might become 'M' if it gets graphic.
1. Definate Difference

**This chapter is more of a test than anything else so be warned: quality may be a little below par. I tried. **

**Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural then Bobby would never have died :(**

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Dean Campbell had not been friends with Sam Winchester for very long. However, it was long enough for him to realise that something was slightly off about him. Despite his height and slight socially awkward air about him, Sam was a nice guy. Maybe Dean was imagining things; it wasn't exactly like he could ask Sam about it. How would that conversation go? _Hey Sam, d'you know what it is that makes me think that something might be wrong with you?_ Yeah right. As he wasn't quite sure what it was, that would be slightly very awkward.

Dean was thinking about this as he sat at the back of a particularly boring Biology lesson. The room was stuffy on the best of days but the temperature outside on that day was boiling- about twenty degrees or so. He had loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt, slightly unsure of why it had been done up in the first place. Habit probably.

He gazed out the window, watching a year 7 PE lesson outside, smiling to himself as they tried to do a cross country run and most of them ending up flopping onto the ground. He just managed to hear the teacher begin a new set of notes with "Now add a title of 'Fusion Cell Cloning' and make sure you get everything down- this is important."

Dean snorted, he highly doubted that. He didn't plan to be a biologist so this was of very little relevance to him. In fact, most things they 'taught' in school were of very little relevance to him. That was probably why he was falling behind.

"Something amusing, Mr Campbell?" Dean looked up, slightly surprised she had heard him. As it was, Dr. Grey was glowering at him over her ridiculous round glasses from the front of the classroom, a reproachful look on her face.

"Not at all, sweetheart." He replied, only half apologetic, raising his eyebrows but sitting up a little straighter.

"Really? Then can you tell me the last line of the notes I asked you to take?"

"Erm..." Shit. He hadn't written anything except the date. He pretended to turn back a page, frantically hoping someone would help him. Timing perfect as usual, Sam Winchester's notes slid on top of Dean's blank pages.

"The group of fertilised embryos are then inserted into a surrogate to be born and develop naturally." Dean read, parroting the neat handwriting underneath his nose. "Right. Thank you whoever gave their notes to Dean, for actually paying attention." Dr Grey turned back to the board, picking up on her explanation of fusion cell cloning in the monotone she had been using.

"Thanks." Dean muttered to Sam. "Mind if I photocopy that?"

"No problem." Sam replied, sliding his arm over and reclaiming his notes.

Although it was something infinitely small, it caught Dean's attention that the button on Sam shirt sleeve was done up. It shouldn't have mattered, seeing as it had no imminent importance but on such a hot day, for some reason, it bothered Dean. He glanced at Sam's other buttons; the top button on his shirt was undone; but the cuffs were more restrictive that the neck.

"Y'know," Sam pointed out, breaking Dean out of his train of thought "it would just be easier if you took your own notes."

Dean shrugged. "No point. I'm never gonna use this stuff."

"Fair enough." Sam acknowledged, returning to his note taking.

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**So what do you think? Good? Bad? Somwhere in between? Constructive critisism please. You'll get a huuuuuuge cyber cookie for it!**


	2. Falling Over Your Feet

**My apologies for the long gap between chapters one and two- everything's been rather hectic. Thank you to reannablue, itsrubyy, peppergreen, mandancie , pottyandweezlbe89 and T.L. Arens for reviewing; I've tried to take everything into account. In regards to which I've tried to develop this chapter a little more than the first- I'm not sure if it worked or not- and future chapters should be longer and posted at more regular intervals. :)**

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The canteen was packed and noisy. The heat from outside was amplified tenfold by students crammed together, food heaters and constant movement.

The rag tag group was crowded round a three-person triangular table in between the radiator and an open window. It was a very strange place to be sitting, as the radiator was never turned off, and the window was open to create a draft.

The group consisted of Sam, Dean and two of the five Novak boys- Castiel and Gabriel.

The Novaks were in the same year as Dean and Sam and they shared quite a few lessons. Gabriel was short and had slicked back long-ish brown hair, a mild chocolate addiction that somehow went invisible in regards to his waistline and a tendency to speak at 400% of everybody else's volume. He also seemed to enjoy assigning nicknames to everyone and Sam currently had over four; including Moose and Samsquatch. Gabriel's younger brother, Castiel, however, was much quieter and wore a ridiculously stoic expression most of the time. He had bright blue eyes and shorter, dark hair. He was also the only one in school who managed to get away with wearing his tie backwards and occasionally donning a trench coat; no one was sure exactly why- maybe he just never learnt to do a tie up properly. Castiel also had a habit of pointing out the obvious.

Gabriel- as per usual- had somehow managed to get into an argument with Dean over something stupid and Cas was writing notes for a history essay; but Sam wasn't paying attention.

He sat with his head down, mostly ignoring the conversation. No one noticed he wasn't talking or eating anything- he'd had half a sandwich and was now sat staring at his knees. He had been feeling slightly sick for a while now and was sure Dean had seen something during that Biology lesson. Sam pulled down the sleeves of his shirt a little further, further than they should go; attempting to cover his hands. It was becoming more than a little uncomfortable in the intense heat but it would be worse if he rolled up his sleeves.

"Hey, Sam, where d'you stand on this?"

Sam looked up to find Gabe and Dean looking at him. Cas was resolutely ignoring the argument, now writing about the medieval church. He blinked a couple of times. "Sorry; on what exactly?"

Gabriel rolled his amber eyes as if Sam was being deliberately challenging.

"'Jaws' or 'The Time Machine'?" He explained slowly, drawing out each word as if speaking to a toddler.

"Um... I dunno. I've read The Time Machine but I haven't seen either of the movies." Gabriel practically blanched. "No way! You're kidding me!"

Sam shrugged. "Never saw them."  
"Where've you been living, dude, under a rock?"

Suddenly, just as he was about to respond, Sam's stomach flipped. As if he had physically been slapped in the face, he felt himself falling backwards slightly and gripped the edge of the table for support. Blinking rapidly, he got to his feet. This seemed to be a bad idea as he momentarily wobbled but then settled.

"Sam, you ok?" Asked Dean from somewhere beyond his blurry vision. Sam gave a stiff nod. "Feel a bit-" He closed his mouth abruptly, fighting another wave of nausea that threatened to overtake him. Instead of finishing his sentence, he made a beeline for the door.

Dean considered going after Sam but decided against it. If he was going to vomit, Dean was pretty sure he didn't want an audience for it. He'd drag him up to the nurse later. Besides, he noticed that Jo Harvelle was looking at him again. When their eyes met, Jo blushed and turned away. He smirked and, nodding to Cas and Gabe, stood up and walked over to her, convinced he saw Cas rolling his eyes at Dean's back.

Sam leant over the sink, watching the water swirl slowly away down the plughole. He took a deep breath and straightened up, leaning against the porcelain for support. He hadn't actually vomited but he'd come close enough. Bloody hot weather was going to do him in. Sam loosened his tie a little further- if anyone was going to see anything it wasn't going to be here. Closing his eyes he turned around so he was slumped against the line of sinks. He rubbed his face with his hands and sighed. He should probably go upstairs- find somewhere quiet in the library and wait for next period. Castiel would probably be there as well and he thought that he could do with some _quiet_ conversation at the moment. He'd left his bag up there anyway.

He rolled his sleeves down and pushed himself off of the sink, heading for the door.

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**Good? Bad? Somewhere in limbo? Let me know- I'll give you a cyber cookie. **


	3. Flat

**So much for regular updates…sorry guys. I've had exams and my book and Legend of Zelda and film project stuff and general bleeeeurrgh to get out of the way. But I finally had time to get some stuff down. I've already written the next couple of chapters so those should be up all in good time- don't want to have a feast and then a famine.**

**BUT NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE UP TOMORROW.**

**Disclaimer: If I did own Supernatural (I wish) then Bobby would have never gone to Hell in the first place…**

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"Hey, Sam?"

Sam looked up from the table through his mop of messy brown hair at Dean. It was the middle of the last period of the day, which happened to be a free. Sam was doing Biology homework and Dean, sat opposite; was reclining in his seat, humming Led Zeppelin, occasionally complaining that he was bored.

"What?" Asked Sam, breaking his concentration for the grand total of half a second before returning to his work. Dean, for his part, leant over until he was about five centimetres away from the other boy.

"C'mon, college boy, stop doing homework. You're supposed to wait until the night before and then complain about it as much as possible, not do it the second ya get it."

He reached forwards, planting two fingers on top of Sam's book, sliding it out from underneath his nose and spinning it round to face him. He pulled a face at what he saw. "Yikes, dude."

"Well," Responded Sam, batting Dean's hand away and grinning, retrieving his book. "I guess I'm not just as lazy as you are."

"Anyway..." Continued Dean, re-embarking on his original train of thought as if he had not been interrupted or insulted. "I was going to ask if you wanted to come over to my place after school. Seeing as you love this stuff so much and I don't understand any of it, maybe you could help me...Or we could just listen to Zeppelin and watch movies until after curfew?"

Sam's head dropped once again, his smile and his face paling slightly. "Um, yeah that sounds great and all but I don't think I can. Sorry."

"Why not?"

"My dad made me promise to come home on time. Family stuff, you know?" He lied. Well, it was a half lie technically; but still a lie.

"Right, yeah. Sure."

"Can't you ask Cas and Gabe?"

Dean shrugged, reclining back in his seat once again. "Nah." He said. "If there was one then the other would have to come too. Cas doesn't understand movies and Gabe annoys the hell outta me."

It was Sam's turn to shrug, still not looking up. "'Spose." He mumbled. "Sorry."

Dean shook his head. "Never mind. 'Nother time maybe?"  
"Sure."

* * *

The rest of the free period passed pretty slowly; Dean opting to hum Stairway to Heaven all the way through about nine times and Sam doing homework until the bell rang for the end of the day.

When it did finally ring, Dean was off like a shot, heading to his car and calling a vague 'bye' to Sam over his shoulder.

Sam stayed a little longer, shoving his stuff back into his bag returning a few library books before walking through the corridor, down the steps and into the carpark. It was practically a war-zone of students with pathological one-hundred-and-fifty-square-feet-road-rage and idiots trying to impress other idiots.

He looked around, towards the back, trying to remember where he parked his battered old Jeep, only to find some kindly asshole had slashed one of his tires.

Whether it had been a direct effort to take a bite out of Sam personally or just one of the random stoners that happened to skip lessons to smoke pot out on the sports field; it made little difference.

The most annoying thing was that he didn't have a spare and his dad was going to be pissed if he was late.

Suddenly, a thought struck him. Dean kept almost everything in the back of his car. If he was still here- which was likely seeing as only five people seemed to have been able to leave- Sam could probably nick a spare tire.

His friend's car wasn't exactly hard to spot. It was a stunning black 1967 Chevrolet Impala that was currently surrounded by a group of girls, all batting their eyelashes at Dean, who was sat on the bonnet, accepting the flirtation. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

He was nervous with pretty much everyone except Dean, Castiel and Gabriel. He had only spoken to Dean in the first place because he had been assigned as his 'buddy' on the Sam's first day when he moved a few months ago. Contradicting Sam's expectations perfectly, Dean had not completely ignored him but insisted on introducing him to his from their small group, however, Sam had next to no friends aside from a rather…eccentric guy named Andy in the same year who he spoke to on occasion, and usually paired with for chemistry. To everyone else, Sam was generally known as 'the tall gangly freak in year 11 who doesn't talk to anyone'. That was actually kinder than some of the names he'd been called in his last school.

Sam walked over towards the Impala, hoping he wouldn't actually have to attract his friend's attention without calling out. Luckily, Dean noticed Sam when he was about feet away and called him over. Sam's presence alone was enough to cause t of the group disband.

"Geez, dude. You some kinda anti-aphrodisiac or something?" Dean joked, shoving his hands into his pockets and jumping off the bonnet of his car.

"Sorry to ruin your…" Sam made a deliberate show of counting the number of girls who had stalked off. "eight potential girlfriend options. But someone's slashed my tire. You got a spare?"

"Course I do. Be prepared."

Sam stifled a laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm imagining you as a boy scout."

"You want the damn tire or not?"

It took five minutes for Sam to realise his car was buggered. After Dean helped him change the tire, the battery turned out to be flat. Probably thanks to the same person who slashed his tire. They must have been having a very small, silent rave.

"Crap. Gonna have to walk." He muttered, slapping the steering wheel in frustration. "Bus left five minutes ago."

"You just gonna leave it here?"

"Might as well." Sam elbowed the door open and got out of the car. "I'll get a set of jumper cables and borrow one of my dad's friend Bobby's cars in the morning."

"One of his cars?"

"He runs an auto repair shop."

"Oh. I'll give you a lift if you want?"

Sam grinned. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Just tell me where you live."

* * *

They arrived at Sam's house about ten minutes later. The car journey had begun with Dean sticking an AC/DC cassette into the player and turning the volume up way too loud and out of tune renditions of 'Highway to Hell' from both the driver and the shotgun. But a few minutes before they arrived, Sam had stopped singing and gone slightly green.

They pulled up outside a detached house on an out of the way road a few miles away from school and about half a mile out of town. It was old, with ivy winding its way across the front, almost entirely covering the lounge window and snaking around the beams of both the front and side porch. The garden was just overgrown enough to look friendly but somehow it didn't. The whole place looked a little care worn. It wasn't unpleasant to look at but it didn't exactly sing happy home either.

One feature that didn't help was the middle-aged man in the front garden with his arms folded, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Sam paled even further. Oh crap.

"That your dad?" Asked Dean, nodding towards the man in the garden.

"Yeah."

"Well, it's not your fault you're late is it?"

Sam didn't even answer. He simply opened the door, grabbed his bag and slid out of the car. Once the door was shut, he tapped on the glass of the window. Dean leant over in a rather uncomfortable position and rolled it down.

"Thanks for the ride, man." Sam said through the window.

"No problem. See ya tomorrow, Sammy."

Sam turned away from the car and walked towards the house and his dad. Sam's father smacked his son round the back of the head. Dean winced. Ouch. Bit harsh. But then again, his mother occasionally did that; not that hard though. Before driving off, he could have sworn he heard shouting coming from the direction of Sam's house. But then again, AC/DC was still blaring, so he couldn't be entirely sure…

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**Good? Bad? Somewhere in between? Please tell me and give me constructive criticism if you can!**

**N.B. Sorry if I'm being too British, I'm not good with Americanisation-ed words. Please give me words and tell me if you need any clarification!**


	4. 25 minutes

**Sorry this wasn't posted yesterday like I promised- my internet decided to play stupid games with me…**

**Warnings for strong language, physical abuse of a minor and references to self-harm in this chapter. If it offends or upsets you, please don't read, thank you.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own the boys, just messing.**

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Almost as soon as Dean's car had disappeared from view, John spun Sam around and shoved him towards the house. He stumbled slightly as he was pushed, meriting him another whack around the back of the skull.

Once the door was closed, John grabbed one of his son's shoulders and pulled him round to face him. Horribly close, Sam could smell the acrid mixture of whiskey, liquor and some random woman's perfume on his father's breath. He only had about half a second to wonder who and how old the woman might be before John hissed, "What time is it, Samuel?"

"Um…" Sam's face suddenly turned scarlet as he looked over at the clock in the kitchen. "3:40, sir."

"And what time are you supposed to be home?"

"3:15. But one of the-"

"Shut up. I am assuming you were at school so maybe you can tell me exactly how late you are, Sam."

"Twenty five minutes, sir."

"And where the fuck is the car?"

Sam only hesitated for a second but that in itself was a bad idea. His father let go of his shoulder and brought a fist hard into his stomach. Sam gasped and doubled over.

"Where's the fucking car, Sam?" His father asked, bending down to eye-level.

"It was…one of the…tires got slashed and then…battery died." Sam managed to gasp out before he received another blow, this one to his chin, causing him to spin on the spot slightly. John caught him by the shirt and pulled him in closer.

"You didn't think to call me?" He spat. "Ungrateful little shit, that's what you are."

That was when Sam caught sight of the almost-empty whiskey bottle sat on the kitchen table…and the half full bottle of Jack Daniels. Crap. He had anticipated his father being drunk, but not _this_ smashed at three in the afternoon. Even for him that was reaching further than usual. He must have had a bad day.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy!" John snapped, pulling Sam's attention away from the bottles. "Y'know what I've had to deal with today aside from your shit?" He breathed into his son's face.

"N-no, sir." Sam stuttered slightly, feeling his lip begin to swell from the earlier blow.

"'Course you don't." He finally let go of the boy's shirt and shoved him backwards down the corridor, towards the lounge. He shoved him again, harder this time; and Sam stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet and landing with his left ankle in an awkward position. He heard a sickening crack.

"Stand up!" Bellowed John. "If you're going to be punished at least take it like a man!"

Sam did as he was told, pulling himself to his feet using the wall as a support and attempting to put as little weight on his left as possible. John grabbed his hair and pulled him so he was bent forwards, then forced his head backwards to look him in the eye. Delivering another blow to the face- the mouth specifically- and then another to the stomach once again. Using the grip on his son's hair as leverage, he swung Sam round so he collided with the doorframe and then again towards the wall. He pinned him to the wall, crossing an arm across his chest. Sam let out a groan of pain as weight was pushed onto his damaged ankle.

"Can't you…even…take…a…few…hits?" Each phrase was punctuated with a blow either to the face or the gut. "Pathetic."John never usually hit him where it was visible. He must have been either really out of it or really pissed. Probably both. He had been drinking more frequently, sampling stronger booze and just drinking a lot more in general recently.

After what felt much longer than it actually was, John finally stopped. He dropped Sam and took a step back. "Oh, and another thing Samuel…"

Sam looked up at his father, chest heaving, tasting blood in his mouth.

"I found the knife under your bed."

Sam's eyes widened momentarily and panic arose in his chest. John let out a harsh laugh. "Oh don't worry, I haven't taken it. You can cut yourself open as much as you bloody well like. See if I care." He squatted down so he met the boy's eyes. "But what I don't understand is this: why can't you a single thing that I give you, if you're only going to do something to yourself later? Maybe it's because you're just a worthless piece of shit."

He straightened up once again, brushing his hands on his jeans as if he was worried they were somehow contaminated from contact with his son. He took a minute to look at him before leaving the room.

Sam didn't dare stand after John left; both for pain in his ankle and fear his father it would anger his father. John returned a few minutes later with his jacket in one hand and the half-full bottle of Jack Daniels from the kitchen table in the other and squatted down next to him, once more taking a fistful of his hair and churning out instructions.

"I'm going out. Get all your work done, tidy this place up and you better be in your room by the time I get back. I don't want to see your face before tomorrow, when you damn well better be on time, not cruising around with that idiot who gave you a ride. Walk home next time; I don't want random strangers pulling up the drive..." He let go of Sam's hair and stood, adding, almost as an afterthought:

"And wash your damn face."

With that he left, taking a swig from the bottle and slamming the door audibly behind him.

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**Good? Bad? Somewhere in between? Please review and let me know...**

**P.S. Thank you to all of you who reviewed, favourited and followed this story. I was slightly overwhelmed. **


	5. The delicate art of walking into doors

**Ok, once again I'm tremendously sorry about this. 1. For how long it took me- I've been very ill recently and have not had the brain capacity to write anything. And 2. How bad it is- I had more written but my computer decided to lose the document. I thought it would be better to post something before the apocalypse happened and make up for the quality in the next chapter.**

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"Dude, you've gotta be kidding me! Leatherface would kick Hannibal Lecter's ass!"

"Actually, my ignorant friend, I think you'll find that it's the other way round."

"How does that work?"

"It's called intelligence, not that I'd expect you to understand."

"Oh really, and which one of us is going to get diabetes by the time he's twenty?"

"Hey, asshat, I have a fast metabolism!"

"Will the two of you please be quiet?"

Dean and Gabriel broke off their argument to look at Castiel. He wasn't the only one who was getting annoyed. No one was even pretending to pay attention but at least they were being subtle about it. The original topic of the debate had long since been forgotten but apparently the only way Dean and Gabe could interact was by insulting each other.

"Sure, bro." Said Gabe, reaching into his pocket to take out a chocolate bar. "When Campbell admits that he's wrong."

"No chance."

"Well-"

"May I propose a change of subject?" Interjected Cas, before the bickering could start up again.

"Sure." Replied Dean, shooting daggers at Gabriel. "As long as it's not anything productive. That's not what we're here for."

Cas' brow furrowed, as if he were trying to figure out the juxtaposition of Dean's sentence. After a moment he either figured it out or gave up.

"Where's Sam?" He asked. "Or maybe you had not noticed that he has been missing all morning?"

This time it was Dean's turn to furrow his brow. "Sure I noticed." He said, shrugging. "I assumed he was running late or something."

Cas clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "And do you not think it would be a good idea to call him? You said his father seemed disapproving yesterday."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yes, mother." He muttered, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He raised his hand and the teacher waved him out of the classroom without even asking for an excuse, seeing as no one was listening anyway. He actually looked a little more depressed than usual, Dean noted.

"I don't think Sam's been murdered." He added to Cas before leaving.

He walked a little way along the corridor and then dialled Sam's number, pressing the phone to his ear and waiting for Sam to pick up. It took him around a minute and a half.

"Hello?" Sam's voice sounded slightly more strained than usual as he answered. He also sounded unusually tired and as if his throat was sore.

"Hey, Sam." Replied Dean, leaning back against the wall.

"Oh, hi, Dean."

"You sound disappointed."

"What d'you want?"

"I was just wondering where you were. Cas is convinced you've been swallowed by a black hole."

"Oh yeah. Sorry, I'm not doing so great. I'll be in later."

"Right, ok. Actually one more thing."

"Yeah?"

"Leatherface or Hannibal Lecter?"

"…What?"

* * *

Sam arrived half way through lunch break. He looked even worse than he had sounded on the phone- as if he had barely slept and might fall down at any moment. He was also acting strangely, Dean noticed, constantly pulling his shirt sleeves down. Being ill was one thing but acting as if he were in a room full of lepers was another. Perhaps that was something to do with the whacking great bruise on his chin.

It was half way through fourth period when his curiosity got the better of him.

"So…" He began, "how'd you get the shiner?"

Sam seemed too engrossed in his history essay to respond. Dean clicked his fingers under Sam's nose.

"Oi, Winchester."

Sam still didn't look up, deciding to mutter, "Hmmm?" back at him.

"I asked," He repeated. "how you got the bruise,"

Sam's shoulders momentarily stiffened and he dropped his head further forwards, letting his fringe cover his eyes. Dean punched him on the arm.

Sam finally looked up at him, rubbing his abused limb.

"Hey! What was that for?"

"Stop avoiding the question."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Dean rolled his eyes and repeated, this time as if speaking to a particularly dense three year old, "How did you get the bruise? You know; the one on your face."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"I walked into a door."

Somehow, Dean wasn't convinced. So he let Sam know about it.

"Bullshit." He stated. "You walked into the door with your chin sticking out? Were you challenging it to a duel?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"I was dizzy and fell over my feet. Happy?"

Dean grinned. "Oh, you're such a ballerina."

"Screw you."

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**As usual, please tell me what you think and leave a review. They fuel my writing fire!**

**N.B- This is a repost. Thank you to Write My Life Away for pointing out my mistake. :D**


	6. Place of Darkness

**Urgh, I'm sorry for being an assbutt and leaving this as long as I have. **

**This chapter is also kinda...different (you'll see what I mean) and I found it quite difficult to write, so I apologise if it's really bad.**

**Warning for self harm and references to child abuse.**

* * *

This was a dark place. His dark place. The corners of his mind were creeping to the forefront, the twisted shadows he tried so hard to contain clawing at him. Broken phrases and crashed trains of thought; scathing words and constant insults that swirled around his subconscious_. Mistake. Useless. Coward. Freak._ _Worthless. _Worthless. He _was _worthless. Always had been, always would be. He had been told and reminded every day ever since...

Sam's hands shook as he clasped them together between his knees, ducking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. He could feel the freezing cold layer of sweat over his neck and forehead as a shiver ran through him. He didn't know what it was; that he was feeling. It sat in the pit of his stomach, a ten tonne lead weight that made him feel as if he might vomit. It never seemed to leave, building up steadily into moments like this. It was like a great wave, constantly rolling around inside him. It was an acrid mixture of misery, pain and grief. And it _never fucking left._

Sam swallowed, the lump in his throat catching as he did so, causing him to wretch. He doubled over, coughing, tears welling up in his eyes. He tried to blink them away but one they had begun, they didn't want to stop. They streamed down his cheeks He ran his hands through his hair, attempting to stop them shaking. It was a vain effort. He felt his fingers tighten in his hair, almost subconsciously and he took a deep breath.  
He could hear his father's voice in his head, taunting him. _Crying? Pathetic. Then again you always were weren't you? Useless. Fucking useless, Sam. Always. Men don't cry, Sam. What the hell's wrong with you, boy?  
_Tears were falling thick and fast now and Sam tried as hard as he could to push them away, but to no avail. He clenched his fists in his hair, digging his nails into the flesh of his palms and his scalp. It hurt, but not as much as he wanted it to.

He didn't want to do it, did he? He knew it made no sense, deep down. It wasn't constructive; exactly the opposite in fact; and Sam knew he didn't need any more of that in his life. But at the same time, it made perfect sense. That confused him as well. But it made him stronger...didn't it? This way, he didn't bruise as easily, didn't feel it as much anywhere else. Did it make sense or didn't it? His shoulders heaved in another great sob as he slid his hands down onto his knees and shook his head. This would be the last time, he told himself. Another 'last time' to add to the long list of 'last times'. He reached between his knees, bending down to slide his hand under the bed, feeling for the hilt of the knife he knew was there. He used to hide it; under a blanket or a shirt in fear that his father would find it. Now he longer bothered. His fingers wrapped around it and he dragged it slowly, hearing the sickening metallic scrape as he did so.

Sam held it up to the light, turning it over in his hands. He knew it didn't make sense. Couldn't possibly have any positive consequences. But it made sense. Somehow. His mother told him once that everything made sense. Somehow.

He brought it up, laying it flat against his skin, feeling the cold, solid metal against his sweaty skin. He closed his eyes one last time, turning the blade sideways, and led it bite into his arm.

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**Once again, I'm sorry for this chapter. It's shorter than usual, mainly because it's generally just a bit horrible. Next one will definitely be up quicker.**


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